Wasted

I’ve started walking recently, and—

Wait—

Let me back up—

So, this has been a disaster of a year for us—total dumpster fire. Of late, though, a few things are going our way, enough so that some days I find myself feeling quite chipper about it.

But when I go for a walk, no matter the place or the pace, I find myself weighed down, and it’s difficult for me to move through. I think the din of technology that makes our houses glow and keeps our minds occupied might be catching up with me. I’m so distracted all day that I’m not forced to feel… anything.

But when I walk, I do feel something, and it’s not what I expect. It’s certainly not what I want. But I know it’s what’s needed.

I think I need to walk more. And far.

I need a break from modern society. I know this to be true. But there is also another truth…

We are all addicted to technology.

And another…

I don’t even care.

I’m curious about what will be coming next. Things are moving so fast here at the end of the world, and I feel like I should at least be paying attention.

Because make no mistake: this ship is going down.

There are floods everywhere, tornadoes, blizzards, droughts, hurricanes. Half the world is wasteland, the earth scorched from our wars, the flash of explosions still visible just over the horizon. And the other half is drowning in a marriage of ocean waves and the waves of technology that are overwhelming most of the rest of us.

Sure, it would be possible to disconnect. But then what? What do we eat? Where do we live? How can we escape from all of it and live out there in the wild without counting on the big box stores and dominating websites of the day to deliver us our freeze-dried meals and that extra pair of wool socks?

No, this is just how things are done now. And people are scared. At least those who are paying attention are.

But am I?

I push those fears down deep. I take the pills. I take the steps.

Our children might not ever know a simpler life, a life lived with hot summers and cold water from a hose, a life lived with the big animals that remain in our world, with horses and their flightiness, with bicycles and long days.

They will create for themselves a new type of life. And what can we do?

I white knuckle it on the blazing steering wheel, pretending that the speed of the fast lane doesn’t scare me. I drive through the smoke from the wildfires, through the torrential downpour, through what remains of my life.

I turn up the music and ignore the warning signs.

I do what I can. I try to care. I try to pretend that I’m not someone who tosses the glass jar into the garbage can. I try to convince myself that the people at the top, the ones who run this tainted world, care about any of it.

But do they? Do I? How much is enough?

I need to try harder.

So, I go back to that walk. I drive the car, not at the speed of the world swirling out of control, but at my own speed. I don’t wait for the end. I don’t wait for the cancer to return. I don’t wait for things to fall apart.

Instead, I move forward, as we all must. I let go, as we all must. I open my mouth and sing the song, my song, and I find the walk easier, bit by bit, step by step.

There is a world after this world, a world that will explain to us why all of this makes sense. I will use my time walking down here on the street to remember the freedom of youth, to marry it with the wisdom of age, and I will wait for my own sense of freedom to return.

As we all must.